


Flinch

by ever_enthralled



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Rough Sex, mafia, mafia boss!zeke, spit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29852565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ever_enthralled/pseuds/ever_enthralled
Summary: Secrets aren’t the only things that leak.
Relationships: Zeke Yeager/Reader
Comments: 17
Kudos: 140





	Flinch

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this quite a while ago and just forgot to post it here, but since i'm moving my tumblr archive over here to stay ~exclusively~ i realized this needs to be added. so yeah. enjoy!

The sound of your name pulls your attention from the task in front of you, and you look up, setting the gun in your hand down on the table only half polished. Reiner is propped in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest as he eyes you from across the room for a moment. 

When he doesn’t say anything, you prompt, “What?” with raised eyebrows and little patience. It’s always running thin, especially here. 

Chuckling, Reiner shakes his head. “Bossman wants to see you in his office,” he tells you, one side of his mouth lifting in a smirk when he adds a pointed, _“Again,”_ and your expression changes to one of what you hope to be only _subtle_ disgust. 

With a drawn out sigh, you stand, reaching for the weapon on the table only for the brawny blond to whistle and shake his head. “Come on, you know better by now.”

“Right,” you affirm, mumbling a fake apology under your breath as you stride over. No weapons in the boss’ office. Unless, of course, they’re his. 

In a darkened corner of the room, Annie is sitting next to Bertl watching the exchange. You figure they’ll keep an eye on your precious gun in your absence, cast a vague look in their direction and get a nod of confirmation in response. It’s strange how you all seem to stay on the same wavelength despite not working together for long. Well, _they’ve_ been together, but you’re still the new kid, the fresh meat. You assume that’s why _he_ keeps calling for you. He’s still testing you, wondering if he can trust you yet.

He shouldn’t. 

You stride over to where Reiner is standing, show a sarcastic smile and gesture to the hallway behind him. “Lead the way.”

He snorts, “Like you don’t already know it.” Still, he turns his back and begins walking, letting you follow.

An unpleasant sensation settles in the pit of your stomach, one you try to ignore by distracting yourself with just about anything—the wallpaper peeling where it meets the ceiling, the voices that echo behind several doors you pass, how nice Reiner’s shoulders look in a dress shirt.

It doesn’t really work (though that last image is quite nice). The sick feeling is familiar at this point, present whenever you’re _summoned_ , and sure, it always turns out to be nothing— _“What do you know about so-and-so?”_ or _“be a doll and pick up my dry cleaning.”_ You wait for the day when it isn’t something so casual, the day it all comes out, that he tells you he knows your dirty little secret. 

It’s inevitable. He’ll find out one way or another, whether it’s you revealing yourself on purpose or making a mistake that shows your colors. He’ll learn the truth. 

Taking this job was something you’d done on a whim, if you’re being honest. You were getting bored in the Eldian family, felt stifled, like you weren’t being trusted enough, given enough support. And, what better way to earn trust and support than putting yourself in mortal danger? 

The Marley Boys have been the bane of the Eldian Mafia for as long as you can recall, longer than you’ve even been part of the family. Stealing business, rigging races, racketeering, assassinations—they battle for dominance on every front. No matter how hard the Eldians fight, there’s been no clear way to dismantle the Marley Boys. 

The moment Erwin Smith breathed the words _‘double agent’_ , you jumped to volunteer. It would work out. You aren’t well-known, had always been told to stay low, stay hidden and inconspicuous in everything you do, were never allowed on high-profile jobs. People didn’t know your face like they did his little lap dogs, the _pillars_ , yet he still hesitated.

_“I can do this, Erwin,”_ you had assured him, palms flat on his desk as you leaned forward. _“I know you don’t think I can, but I promise you. Let me prove myself to you and the rest of the family.”_

His unwavering stare had threatened to cut you down, so deep and so cold, but he eventually sighed and nodded, _“Very well,”_ then gave you everything you needed to know about the Marley Boys. 

They have a huge web of associates, but as far as the family itself goes, there are only a few key figures: 

The main enforcers who seem to dance between being foot-soldiers and captains to the _actual_ foot-soldiers—Reiner Braun, Annie Leonhardt, and Porco Galliard.

Bertholdt Hoover, who plays the part of timid bookkeeper but has, on more than one occasion, done more physical damage than the three enforcers put together. 

The boss’ two right hands (because that makes sense), Marcel Galliard and Pieck Finger who really just serve to keep his head on straight while also dealing with the shadiest, under-the-table shit like inter-association assassinations. 

And the boss himself, Zeke Yeager. 

Coming into this, you’d hated him simply on principle. As head of the rival gang, of course you wanted to see him dead.

Now, though, after weeks of working for him and gathering intel, that hate runs so, _so_ much deeper. 

A cruel and unforgiving man, Zeke Yeager is a puppet master, a narcissist, an _asshole_ —scum of the earth with enough brains to know and get away with it. He’s a hyper intelligent beast, and you’ll celebrate the day you get to see his brains paint the walls.

His sideways smirk makes your blood boil. His seemingly omniscient gaze never fails to give you goosebumps, eyes light and inscrutable behind those wire frames. He’s arrogant and condescending, uses people however he sees fit, then throws them away without a second thought. You’ve seen it twice now when brought along to _collect_ from associates. The first time, only the indebted client was murdered, but the second encounter ended with _three_ dead bodies: the client, his daughter, and Udo, one of Zeke’s men who had protested the killing of the girl.

Zeke hadn’t even blinked when he fired his own gun, just watched as the smaller man dropped to the ground while taking a long drag of his cigarette. Ruthless. 

But you remained silent, stood your ground, didn’t even let your expression change. Even though a hurricane had been raging inside of you, you managed to keep it at bay and followed Zeke, Marcel, and Reiner back out to the car. 

_“I’m impressed,”_ the boss had spoken while getting situated in the backseat with you. _“You didn’t even flinch back there.”_

_“What was there to flinch at?”_ You played.

Eyes narrowing, a slow grin formed on Zeke’s face, and you sat still and quiet while he looked you over in a new way, like he was analyzing you, taking you apart until he finally nodded, took another drag, then simply said, _“Ice queen.”_

The smoke he breathed into your face had almost made you cough, just like it almost does now as you step into the office, the sweet smell getting stuck in your throat and burning. It permeates every square inch of the room, an especially dense cloud hanging in front of the figure behind the desk but not thick enough to actually block him from view. 

Feet propped up, he doesn’t even glance your way as he continues counting the bloody bills in his hands, just says around his cigarette, “Thanks, Reiner. You can leave.”

“You got it.” 

Reiner turns, flashes you a wolfish grin, then steps back out and shuts the door behind him. You’re left by yourself, wondering if you should drop down into one of the chairs or remain standing. On high alert, you glance around the room without moving your head, simply scanning and taking in the yellowed walls, a few newspaper articles pinned to them. File cabinets in all four corners, each decorated with Remington Models, much more intimidating than the heavy locks that hang off the drawers. Of course, none of it has stopped you from breaking into them on three occasions now.

This office is really just meant for Zeke and his most trusted associates, and sitting inside of it in broad daylight with the boss himself has you antsier than you’d been during any of your late night trespassings. 

“Sir—” you start, but he holds a hand up and continues counting.

Gritting your teeth to keep from outwardly rolling your eyes, you take a deep steadying breath only to choke on it. God damn smoke. You think you see Zeke start to smile but honestly can’t stare for too long lest your temper get the best of you. 

You perch on an arm of one of the chairs, a good median between standing and sitting, then wait for the man to finish, growing more and more irritated with each passing second. He takes his sweet time, just puffing away, not at all bothered by your presence. 

It’s a power play. You know this from the time you’ve spent with both the Marley Boys and the Eldian Mafia. People in charge always get off on weird shit like this, passive hostage situations, you think with a smirk. That’s all it is. You’re nearly positive that when he’s finished counting the money, Zeke is just going to ask you to remind him why you’re here again then tell you to get him lunch. That’s fine. You can tough it out for a couple more weeks. You almost have what you need anyway, it’s so close, sitting in one of the cabinets behind his desk. If you can just focus on that—

“Alright, sorry to keep you waiting, doll.”

_No, you’re not._ “No problem at all, sir,” you assure with a believable smile. 

He straightens the cash and slips it into a little sack before standing up and stretching his back. You watch with mild interest as the fabric over his chest is pulled taut over usually hidden muscle. Zeke isn’t broad like Reiner or tall like Bertholdt, and paired with the pale blond hair and glasses, he’s more unassuming than almost everyone in the family. He doesn’t look nearly as strong as he is, but you know better. 

Tie loose around his neck, jacket obviously long since tossed over the back of his chair, Zeke walks to the drawers behind you and to the right, the picture of ease and comfort in his office. You don’t turn to follow him, keep your unease tight to your chest, only tilting your head when he speaks again, “Sent Colt and Porco down to the docks last night.” The sound of a metal drawer opening, some light shuffling, then it closes again. “Because of the tip you gave us, remember?”

You swallow and nod. “I do. Find anything?”

You know his answer already. Sunday evenings are the smallest shipments, usually nothing but rye bourbon. Leaking that information had been a calculated sacrifice—enough to prove you aren’t useless to the Marley Boys, but not enough to be even slightly detrimental to the Eldian Mafia. 

Not even Erwin knows you know about this schedule, though. He’s extremely tight-lipped about his cargo dealings, but you had happened to be in just the right place _(leaving his estate after a special meeting)_ at just the right time _(3:45am several months ago)_ , and honestly, he just hadn’t known you were still there when he started talking to Levi. Still doesn’t know. 

“Yeah, actually, some bootlegged liquor,” Zeke tells you, putting the lock back into place then dropping it so that it clangs against the cabinet. You don’t flinch despite the way your heart is starting to beat erratically. 

“That’s good, right?” 

He chuckles somewhere behind you, but nothing about it is good-natured, and your blood turns to ice in your veins when you hear another tell-tale click of a lock. The door.

“Yeah, it’s real good.” 

Now, you can’t suppress the shiver that runs through you when his fingers trail over the back of your neck on his way to his desk. He props himself against it rather than sitting behind it, crosses his arms over his chest, then cocks his head. “Found something else while we were there." 

Keeping your face blank, you nod for him to elaborate.

"Porco offed the two Eldian soldiers, uh—” he points to his head, describes, “Cinnamon bun and bowl cut. Said neither of them put up a fight—” His eyes are narrowed to slits as if thinking, but you can tell he’s watching you. _Closely_. Waiting for a reaction. 

Joke’s on him—you couldn’t give a single shit about Marlowe or Floch. Though the former will be a little bit of a loss simply because of his basic loyalty, their absences really won’t make a huge difference in Eldian dealings. 

“—anyway, Pok opened one of the cases, no different from the rest except for what was inside it. Any idea what it was?”

“No, sir.”

Zeke hums, takes his cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out in the ashtray on his desk. “Doesn’t surprise me. No way you would have given us the lead if you’d _actually_ known.”

“Wha—”

He’s up and looming over you in a flash. 

“Do you think I’m _fucking stupid?_ ”

Fingers grip your chin harshly, holding you in place as you stare up at Zeke in alarm. “You think I’ve been clueless the whole time? Gave me some fucking sob-story about needing money for poor ol’ dad, and thought I’d just _buy it?”_

You try to open your mouth to talk, to argue, to make a case for yourself, but Zeke just shoves his fingertips into the new hollows of your cheeks, right between rows of teeth and bruising skin until tears well in your eyes. 

You grunt and struggle in his grip, but another firm hand is on your shoulder, shoving back until you topple to the floor with Zeke on top of you. 

“If you thought for _one second_ I didn’t know you were part of the Eldians…” You squirm beneath him in attempt to get out, but it’s hard to think when he’s baring down, the hand on your shoulder now around your neck squeezing, fingers at your cheeks sliding into your mouth until you choke, and what the fuck _what the fuck what the fuck—_

You take a couple swings at him, the side of your fist knocking into his head hard enough to send those stupid glasses flying. 

Zeke just laughs and tightens his grip. You can taste salt and tobacco on the pads of his fingers, try to bite down only for him to fist a hand in your hair and use it to slam your head against the floor. You cough and splutter as pain blooms in your skull, the beginnings of dizziness starting to ebb into your consciousness. He’s not letting you breathe enough to come up with a plan. You’re too disoriented from the fall, from the sudden attack—fuck, can you reach any of the guns?

No, you know that much. There’s no way. 

“Where’d the fucking coke come from?” His voice barely reaches your ears. You choke weakly around his fingers as he pulls them from your mouth then refocus bleary eyes on the man over you. 

“What?” You rasp.

This whole situation has gone from bad to as bad _as it can possibly be._

They weren’t supposed to find out about the cocaine. It’s the one thing Erwin didn’t have to worry about because _you_ weren’t supposed to know about it in the first place. 

The back of Zeke’s hand feels like fire on your cheek, sends your head snapping to the side. “No more playing stupid. Where’s it coming from?”

Sucking back more tears, you answer truthfully, “Colombia,” then spit in his face.

Zeke’s flinch backward is just enough to give you an opening to ram your head against his, and he swears loudly as he wobbles on his knees. You shove him off you and scramble to your feet. There is a heavy pulsing in your head where it connected with the floor earlier, and it paired with the black spots dancing in your vision are making it hard to come up with any kind of plan for escape.

The boss is between you and the exit, but there’s now a gun just a couple steps away. You could also probably break out the window behind you and go that way, but…

No matter what, you’ll have a target painted on your back.

You wonder how long he’s known, if it’s really been since the day you first came to him in dramatic tears, begging for a place among his ranks. Was your act that obvious? And, who else knows? Is it just him? Pieck, and Marcel? Or, is it the whole family? 

In terms of business, the Eldian Mafia is superior, but when it comes to violence and intimidation… The idea of being at the top of Marley’s hit list makes you sick to your stomach. Even if you get out of here alive today, you won’t last long on the streets.

And, you can’t even bother running to Erwin for protection, not now. He’s typically an understanding man, but this…

You’re fucked.

“God dammit!” You shove the heels of your palms against your eyes in an attempt to keep from sobbing, but it’s no use. You’re dead. It’s this or running like a coward. This is the end of the line for you.

“Oh, are you _crying?”_ Zeke asks scornfully as he raises up. “Plan didn’t quite turn out how you wanted, did it?” His voice travels. You can tell he’s moving, probably going to grab one of the Remingtons, and you’re proven correct when you feel something nudge your stomach. 

Dropping your hands, you look down to find the barrel pushed just above your belly button. Zeke holds the gun with one hand down by his hip, finger on the trigger as he stares at you. His face is red from exertion, shaggy hair a mess, blue eyes light and brightened with bloodlust. 

“What was the point of it all? Did you even have a clear goal?” He mocks, each question making you feel lower and lower.

“Doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Guess not. Still…” Gaze traveling from your face to your chest then downward, Zeke smirks again. “Shame to see something so pretty look so defeated.”

“Fuck off.”

His lips pucker as he lets out a falsely wounded, _“Ooh,_ there’s my ice queen.”

Emboldened by new rage, you straighten up, shove the barrel of the gun deeper into your stomach, then lean forward and bite out, “Just do it.”

You can feel your heartbeat in your entire body, from your fingertips to your throat to your—

“Think I should?” 

Zeke is as close as he can be while still allowing room for the weapon. A shot at this distance would more or less cause you to explode. He’d be covered in your blood from proximity. It wouldn’t be pretty. You expect he’d like nothing more.

Staring death in the face, life has never been so clear. You can see everything, every little detail from the paint on the walls to each wiry hair of Zeke’s beard. You can hear chatter from what must be rooms down, smell food from the bakery a block down, still taste tobacco on your tongue. The only thing that comes close to comparing is the rush and high that comes with good cocaine, but even then, that pales in comparison. 

“No place for me here or there now,” you breathe, “… might as well.”

Zeke hums. “Sounds like I’d be doing you a favor then.”

“Right. Not really your style, is it?” You grin bitterly, the motion making your face ache, but it’s gone when the gun between you clatters to the ground and Zeke is on top of you again. 

It’s just as violent as last time only instead of a hand around your throat, it’s at the back of your throbbing head, and instead of fingers in your mouth, it’s his tongue.

You inhale sharply, breathing in the smoke that still clings to Zeke’s person as well as his cologne. It chokes you more than his grip ever could, but you don’t fight it, just let him in, whimper when he pushes back until your legs are hitting his desk. 

Sitting on the edge, neither of you seem to care about the knick knacks and documents that litter the surface. Papers go flying, a picture frame crashes to the floor, and you are laid out before him, chest heaving as you suck in huge gulps of air and try to make sense of what is happening and why you aren’t stopping it. 

Hands are running up your sides, over your chest. Zeke kneads your breasts, and you moan into him, allowing him to suck your lower lip into his mouth as you lock your legs around your waist. 

You don’t know where this is coming from. You hate him. You _hate him_. But…

“Fuck yes, baby girl, wanted you since you got here—” he grinds his pelvis against yours, moving to kiss down your neck but pausing to suck an angry mark just below your ear. “Came in crying such pretty little tears, always so pretty—”

He’s tugging at the hem of your shirt, and you arch off the wood and let him pull the material up over your head, quiet as he continues to babble. Zeke only stops talking when he rids you of your bra and buries his face in your tits, lavishing them with attention as he massages and licks and sucks until you are _keening_ for him, nails scratching down his back then hastily untucking his shirt as best you can. 

He snickers, cocky again as he backs up and unclasps the suspenders at his waist. It makes stripping him much easier, and after just a few seconds, both of you are completely naked, breathing heavily, and staring. 

Your lips are swollen from too many deep kisses, heavy and hot as they try to form words, but it’s impossible. None even come to mind, not when he’s spreading your legs and tracing your folds, not when he’s dropping to his knees and teasing your slit with the tip of his tongue. 

The only word you _are_ able to manage is his fucking name when he spreads you open and licks inside you with no hesitation. He’s ravenous and relentless, getting as deep as he can, shaking and nodding his head to tease you with the coarse hair on his chin, and _oh fuck_ , you are unraveling. He slides two fingers into your dripping pussy, makes a noise of delight when all you do is moan for him. 

“You’re pretty hot for an ice queen,” he mutters. “Hot and _wet_.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, stop talking,” you beg. You _beg_ because you hate hearing his voice, hate that he is who is doing this to you, who has turned you into this helpless, writhing mess. 

He sucks on your clit, makes you swear and cry. You can feel the slick leaking out of you, and it is infuriating. He shouldn’t be this good. You shouldn’t be this—this _accommodating_ for him. 

Getting to his feet, Zeke continues fingering you, stretching your fluttering walls and leaning over to watch the way your face changes when he very deliberately rubs over a special spot inside of you. Your eyes shoot open, and you’re forced to take in his face, handsome and messy and you cannot stand it, _cannot, will not, no no no—_

“Ready for my cock, doll?”

_“Yes, yes, yes,”_ you choke, tears pricking your eyes again as your battered brain screams at you. You are the worst kind of traitor, weak to your family because you’re weak _for_ your enemy, but _oh god_ , he feels so good sliding in. Slowly, so slowly, savoring every inch as he stretches your little pussy.

“Fuck, fuck, Zeke—”

“Yeah, baby, say my name, just like that.” 

He pulls another gutted noise from you when he teases your clit with his thumb, using shallow thrusts to open you up more and more until the head of his cock feels like it’s in your fucking throat. He shifts his hips, feels like he’s stirring your god damn insides, then covers your mouth with his when you try to protest. 

You’re so full, so tight and clenching around him. Your eyes feel like they’re stuck in the back of your head at this point, yet you still want more. 

God, you want to be completely possessed, out of your mind in the hands of another. You want to belong, you want to be valued, you want—

Zeke sets a ruthless pace, hips slamming into yours as he holds your thighs open. His eyebrows knit together as he stares at where your bodies meet, hissing and cursing while watching you take his length, the way your cunt spasms and drools around him. You feel his fingers tracing where your hole is stretched around him, gentle almost appreciative touches that make your tongue loll out of your mouth.

He takes it as an invitation to push now wet fingers inside, and you taste your own tang on them, suck at the digits and ignore the sick feeling in your bones when Zeke chuckles. 

“Pretty girl,” he coos, slowing his hips for a moment. He pulls his hand back, rubs messy fingers over your face before lowering them to play with your clit again. Your muscles contract around his cock, begging for something he isn’t ready to give yet, but you’re close. You’re getting so close, and he must know it.

“You gonna come for me?” Nodding, you begin to tense. Everything is hot—his skin on yours, his words, his gaze, all shooting to your core. “Gonna make yourself dumb on my cock?” 

“Y-yeah, fu—” He pinches the sensitive bud between two fingers, licks your lips when they part in surprise, then starts fucking into you at a quicker speed. 

Pulling him down into a proper kiss, you meet each thrust, so ready, so desperate for release. If you could just—if he would—

“How bad d’you want it, doll?” He mumbles breathlessly against your mouth. “What are you willing to do?” You moan as he stops pinching and rubs tiny circles over the swollen nerves. “You willing to stay here? To give me what I want?” You arch into him, climax so close you can taste it. “Willing to be my little fucktoy, hm? I could protect you, you know…”

“I don’t care,” you choke. “I don’t care I don’t care just let me—oh fuck, Zeke, _please!”_

You don’t care. Not anymore. You have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and you’re not exactly in your right mind anymore, so you _just can’t care_.

Zeke makes a noise of satisfaction, changes his angle to rub over your spot with every thrust, then fucks you through the orgasm that crashes over you. Every crest and wave that threatens to wash you away, he is there to ground you, skilled hands playing your body like an instrument until you’re trembling under him.

“Feel better?” He asks, moving shallowly inside you. His words and tone are kind, but you can still sense it, the hidden condescension, the triumph that comes with winning. 

He won, and you lost, and there’s nothing you can do about it, least of all now when you’re fucked out and only half conscious, so you simply nod. 

“Good girl. Open your mouth.”

You do without thinking. _Can_ you even think? You don’t know if you even have the ability anymore.

Spit lands on your tongue, and your pussy clenches around Zeke’s cock again. Your stomach rolls, but you barely feel it, just blink up at the man with dazed, watery eyes and wait for him to tell you, “Swallow,” which you do.

This is easy at least. It’s disgusting and low, but it’s easy. 

Zeke’s grin is nothing short of sinister as he peers down at you, absolutely delighted at your new obedience. He smooths hair out of your face, leans down to nuzzle into your neck, then bites hard enough to bruise. 

When you yelp and flinch, he starts moving again, rougher than before, using your body as he pleases. The slap of skin on skin rings out in the room, the squelch of your sloppy cunt taking his cock over and over echoing in your own mind. It’s foul, the worst thing you’ve ever done, but that doesn’t stop the way your back arches on its own volition, the way your eyes roll back again, the way you squirt all over Zeke and moan his name and beg for more. 

You don’t know how long he lasts, but when he does finally come, his hand is wrapped around your throat, and drool is pooling in his mouth, threatening to spill when his jaw drops. You’re filled with warmth and disgust, groaning as Zeke fucks his cum deeper and deeper inside you. Your thighs are quaking around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders. 

You want to spit and scream and cry. You want to shove him off and run, but you don’t. You just lay there, hum into his kiss and card fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. 

As some kind of last act of defiance, you tell him, words muffled, “I still don’t actually like you.”

Zeke laughs. “I doubt you ever will, but that’s—” you both hiss as he pulls out of you, “—to be expected.” He rests between your legs, peers up at you and gently strokes over your ribs. “We’ll see if you warm up at all once the order goes out that you’re priority goods now.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it sounds shitty.”

“It means you get the highest level of protection. Anywhere you go, Reiner and Annie go. We’ll get you a proper weapon, not that bullshit colt Smith probably gave you, and—”

“I can protect myself,” you stop him with a frown. “I’m not some kind of china doll.”

“Aren’t you, though?” He teases, running a knuckle over your cheek before straightening. He must see the argument on your lips because he waves you off and tells you, “Discussion for another time. For now, let’s get back to business.”

You put a hand on his chest and push, give him an unimpressed look when he doesn’t move then ask, “Could I get dressed for _business?”_

Zeke pouts. “I mean, if you insist, but conducting it like this is _much_ more interesting.”

“Pervert.”

He moves then gathers your clothes for you, and as you tug them all on, you don’t even let him ask questions, just tell him everything he wants to know. You have nothing to lose at this point. You’re at rock bottom. What does it even matter?

“Erwin’s shipping schedule is fucked. No one actually knows it but him and a couple others. The people receiving don’t even know what it is they’re getting. They just take it on his orders.” Zeke lights two cigarettes, hands one to you that you gladly take. “The coke comes from Colombia, but there’s a liaison between the country and the Eldian Mafia, one of Erwin’s pillars, a woman.”

Now fully clothed, you sit on the edge of the desk again, feet hanging a couple inches off the ground as you lean back and take a long drag. 

Zeke, still in nothing but his pants and reclaimed glasses, stands between your legs and listens. He watches you closely as you talk, his smirk growing and growing until it’s a full-blown crooked grin, and you want to tell him to wipe it off his fucking face, that you’re doing this for you, not for him. You’re just saving your own ass at this point. 

Even so, his words ring out in your head, too clear and too true: 

_Ice queen._


End file.
